


This is the Spring Where the Faeries Play

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1613153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One spent a weekend mesmerized by his pet's eyelashes. The other has a detached haircurl that floats next to his head. I'd say they were meant to be. The budding romance of Canada and Norway. A kink meme de-anon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is the Spring Where the Faeries Play

**Author's Note:**

> [Original kink meme request](http://hetalia-kink.dreamwidth.org/82345.html?thread=505831337#cmt505831337)  
>  Song inspiration: "Pretty Baby" by Vanessa Carlton

They were content, tangled in the sheets and tangled in each other. The only sound besides the hum of the air conditioner was their heavy breathing, chests rising and falling in sync as they came down from their high. Neither could muster enough oxygen to speak, though it wasn’t as if they were nations of many words. When hands found hands, lips found lips and their souls connected in comfortable silence, who needed _talking_?

Yet, they were still listening.

Norway turned and pressed his nose into Canada’s shoulder. For being two extremely cold masses, they combined to create a wonderfully radiant heat. Though Norway was not particularly keen on cuddling after sex, he _was_ keen on Canada’s desires, his need for soft touches and sweet embraces; he knew Canada needed to _feel_ the love to know it was there. He trailed icy fingertips down Canada’s chest, earning a soft hum of appreciation.

Canada didn’t have to mention he would make pancakes in the morning.

******

Norway was lured out of bed by the smell of maple and the prospect of coffee. Once he had taught Canada how to make it properly, his lover’s brew had become his favorite – along with a generous pour of syrup, of course.

Once he had dressed, in a loose shirt and sweatpants he had borrowed from Canada’s closet, he descended the stairs into the kitchen. Canada was busy at the stove flipping pancakes. Norway’s lip turned up slightly when he noticed the other nation wearing the apron he had given him on his last birthday. Canada hadn’t yet realized Norway was in the room, though he didn’t mind; it gave him a chance to listen to the gentle melody drifting from Canada’s lips.

The lullaby was one of Norway’s favorites. He understood. He would probably pluck the damned bird’s feathers, too, if it had been bold enough to wake him. Heaven knows he has done worse to those who dare intrude on his dreams. In his defense, Denmark’s nose had repaired itself within the hour, even if he had not been conscious to witness it.

But it was difficult to think about annoying brothers when someone as stunning as Canada was in front of him.

Oh! Coffee.

Canada had left the steaming mug on the counter by the stairs, knowing Norway would see it. He had been doing it since that first morning. The mug was another of Norway’s favorites. Canada had given it to him on their first Christmas together. The image was a hand painted Norwegian seascape. It looked like Balsfjorden, where he had taken Canada on his first trip to Norway. The sunset had been particularly lovely that night, captured so perfectly on the ceramic. He doesn’t recall Canada having a camera at the time, so it must have been painted entirely from memory. The mug was special to him. That’s why he kept it at Canada’s house.

Taking a sip, he tried not to think about _drunk_ and still annoying brothers breaking his nice things.

“Breakfast is ready, dear.”

Norway was pulled from his thoughts by a gentle voice. He looked up to find Canada sitting at the dining table, grinning. Loaded plates and silverware were already set out on the maple leaf patterned table cloth. When he sat down with his mug, Canada was quiet as he reached up to smooth Norway’s hair, straighten his barrette. Canada’s pet bear, Kumajirou, seated on a booster seat across the table, gave them a passing glance before refocusing his attention on the stack of syrup-drenched pancakes in front of him. Norway appreciated the lack of concern; there was only so much he could take from nations’ talking pets, even if said pets belonged to his precious baby brother. Canada wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Norway sighed, leaning into the touch.

It was perfect.

******

Norway spent the afternoon with Kumajirou since Canada had a meeting with his prime minister and a few diplomats. They decided to go to the park near Canada’s suburban house. Norway quickly found his favorite spot, a secluded area where he could practice magic. Some faeries had appeared and the bear was endearingly entertained by their simple charms. Norway would have to mention this to Canada – mention meaning he would wordlessly take Canada to this hidden corner of the park and _show_ him. If the faeries were having fun, Norway had no complaints.

If anyone asked, Norway might have mentioned he had a good time. But no one asked. When Canada arrived home five hours later, he found Norway curled up on the couch, blissfully using his bear as a pillow. He didn’t have to ask.

And that was okay.

******

Canada had hockey practice with Team Canada in the evening, though as soon as they entered the arena, Norway regretted tagging along. He had always seemed to forget how aggressive the sport was in this hemisphere and it certainly wasn’t romantic to watch one’s dear lover get slammed into walls for a few hours. 

As a fully padded Canada skates out onto the ice and raises his stick to signal the beginning of practice, Norway thinks about the first night he had watched Canada play. It had also been the night of their first fight. How was he expected to support someone who was regularly bloodied, bruised and blackened – and called it _fun_? He had yelled and Canada had yelled back. He doesn’t know it if was better or worse for his case that Canada had been icing his shoulder at the time.

While he shouted and was shouted at, he couldn’t keep away the thoughts of dread creeping into his mind. He had half-expected (read: fully expected) Canada to kick him out right there, out of the locker room, out of the arena, out of the city, province, country, stick him on the red eye back to Oslo and forget about him. Move on. He definitely wasn’t expected the other nation to just go completely silent and kiss him next to the showers, bag of ice falling to the floor as Canada pulled him close and murmured tearful apologies against his lips. He didn’t expect himself to kiss back.

It was the first night he had given comfort sex – and received it in return.

The next morning, the only time he had ever woken before Canada, Norway looked over his lover’s form. The bruises had faded, the darkness under his eye had disappeared, and his arm was twisted at such an odd angle under the pillows that Norway was certain his shoulder was fine. He could only bury his face in the crook of Canada’s neck and grunt until he was awake. It was his way of saying sorry, Canada knew. And when Canada sat up with a sleepy smile and pulled Norway into his lap, the sheet fell away and he could tell that Canada’s body was just as flawless as it had been before the game.

They were nations after all.

That was something of which Norway had to be frequently reminded, _especially_ when Canada was injured in the rink. At first, he didn’t comprehend why he was being so foolish. The idea that humans wielding fiberglass sticks could permanently injure them was ludicrous in of itself. (Though now he’s certain those idiots are harder on Canada _because_ he’s not human.) He didn’t voice this aloud, but Canada understood. His lover only smiled, pulled him closer for a kiss and told him this was what being in love was about.

_“Don’t you think I worry when you spar Viking-style back home? And you guys use _real_ weapons!”_

That was true. Norway often reenacted the days of yore with Denmark and occasionally Sweden. There was something undeniably intoxicating about disarming Denmark and slicing him with his own axe. And, of course, Norway never walked away unscathed. He recalls their last encounter, when Canada had been with him in Stockholm, where he had suffered a particularly hard blow to the head. Canada had carried him home and helped him bathe, wash off the blood and dirt. He had situated him comfortably on the sofa in front of the crackling fireplace and made sure he was warm. He didn’t leave Norway’s side until his vision stopped bouncing and he could keep down something heartier than water.

The next morning had been Norway’s second experience with comfort sex.

When he thought about it, he had Canada had a lot in common. (He tried to ignore Denmark’s voice taunting in his head, “That’s why you’re together, _Norge_!”) They were both cold, though he figured that just eased the constant traveling back and forth. They were both skilled in the kitchen, able to prepare filling dinners with Canada’s delectable main courses and his desserts. They were both vexed quite swiftly when their hair curls were touched, brushed, or, heaven help the moron who tried, _pulled_. Most importantly, they both had troublesome brothers that were begrudgingly central fixtures in their lives.

Norway tried not to think about how many times he had tried to shut down the Danish embassy in Oslo.

It was much nicer to think about Canada.

Norway can still remember the moment he realized he was in love. It had been after a hockey game, of course, since all good things that happened to Canada seemed to involve a hockey game. That night had ended with a particularly difficult victory against Finland. They were in Canada’s living room watching a Maple Leafs game Canada had recorded while Norway cleaned and bandaged his cuts and scrapes. Canada flinched when the wet cloth brushed against the fresh bruise around his eye, a third period shiner the size of Denmark’s ego. At this point, Norway just rolled his eyes and continued to wipe the area, trying not to smirk.

_“If America were here, he wouldn’t have patched me up, you know,” Canada stated, abnormally talkative when his team won. “Probably would’ve just given me a fist to the other eye so they matched.”_

_“You’d let him get away with that?”_

_“Limping, of course.” Canada beamed and Norway couldn’t think of another time where he laughed that hard._

“Ready to go, dear?” Norway looked up to find Canada grinning tiredly, equipment slung over his shoulder. He was wiping sweat from his brow.

Somehow, Norway had daydreamed through Canada’s entire practice. He had been doing that a lot lately. At least he had Canada to himself now he considered as he stood up and took his lover’s hand. He snatched the shoulder pads from Canada’s other hand insistently, readying his glare if the other nation tried to wrestle them back. Canada only sighed resignedly, allowing some of the burden to be alleviated. The drive back to Canada’s house was in an easy silence.

“So…I’ve got this new recipe from Spain –“ Norway pressed a finger to his lips to shush him. He curled closer to Canada on the sofa.

“Tomorrow. I’ll cook tonight. You’re exhausted.” Canada’s kitchen was always stocked so it wouldn’t be hard to make _something_ edible.

Canada released a breath and sank further into the cushions. “Thanks.”

Norway rose to his feet and stretched. He leaned over to give Canada a peck on the cheek, smiling when he realized his lover was half-asleep.

Maybe dinner could wait.

**_Fin_**


End file.
